You Do Not Know
by Cainwen the Warrior
Summary: The thoughts of the Wraith during Common Ground. No Slash, sex, mild profanity. Please R&R. Rated T for safety. NOW COMPLETE!
1. Waiting to Die

**You Do Not Know**

**A/N: **Okay, this came about as I was watching "Common Ground", and I was wondering, what was the Wraith thinking? This is what came of it. This is part one of about 5 or 6 parts. Please, wait for the thing to be over before you trash my portrayal of the thoughts of a wraith, but please review!** no flames**

**Disclaimer **: Clearly, I do not own Stargate Atlantis, Shepard, the wraith, or any of the characters. I don't even own the dialogue for this.

**Warning, spoilers for Common Ground**

I hear them bringing in a man, but I do not rise. As much as the hunger burns in me and I want to rise and feed, it has been too long...I have strength no longer. Once I could have destroyed these iron bars, but no more. I cannot move, and I wait to die.

The man has begun to move. He grunts, and begins pacing his cell.

"Kolya! I didn't kill you last time, remember?" he shouts. I could almost laugh. The captor is no where near here. He continues to shout, alternately calling and cursing. These humans. They are inscrutable. They fear us, but they fight and kill themselves. They hate us for killing them that we might live, but do not stop killing one another, though it gains them nothing.

"You're wasting your breath," I tell him. I am ashamed at the sound of my voice. It is like that of an old human. Once it was deep and powerful, but no more.

"Didn't know I had company down here," he says, and comes over to the barred window between the cells.

"There is no escape," I tell him, but he does not believe me, boasting that he will get out. He tries to see me in my cell, but I am hidden in the darkness. I can see him though, and see he is a young man, strong. How I long to feed on him. Even a few years of his life would be enough to stave off death for a little while longer.

"Many years," I tell him. He asks how many is many, and I tell him it is meaningless. And it is. What does time matter when one is starving, waiting for death to end the suffering? Every moment is an eternity of suffering. I have heard the humans speak of a place called Hell, where fires burn eternally, but never consume, and that is what my hunger is. I would feed, and I would not. Even the life of this man would not be enough to satisfy me, and I would just prolong my suffering.

He talks some more, pretending to sympathize. He says that his people are coming for him, and that when they come, perhaps they will take me with them. Again I am hit with the reality that I am so weak that he does not recognize me as a Wraith.

The guards come, and try to take him somewhere, but he refuses to go, until the beat him back with one of their weapons, a stick that inflicts great pain. It is what has so drained my strength. They brought me here already too weak to fight and have just barely kept me alive. A moment after they take him, more come for me. They open the door, and come in arrogantly. They know I am done. Before, they came in trembling, a dozen at a time to control me with the pain sticks. But now only two come, pain sticks at their sides. They know it has been long since I fed, and that I cannot feed on them, because of the guards on my hands, even if I had the strength to get to them. They come and kick me, mocking me. If I had fed just a bit on the man next to me, I would have destroyed them. But I am too weak to even stand at their bidding, and so they drag me to my feet, and half-drag, half-carry me to wherever it is they want me to go.

I hope I am going to die.


	2. The Oppressed

**The Oppressed **

**A/N:**Wow! I couldn't believe the positive response I got to the first part of this story. I was so certain that it would not be popular for my symphathetic portrayal. Anyway, I responded to those who logged in, and I hope you enjpy this next segment!

Disclaimer: Again, don't own Stargate, John, the wraith, the dialog from the show, or the Bible.

Again I looked and saw all the oppression that was taking place under the sun:  
I saw the tears of the oppressed—  
and they have no comforter;  
power was on the side of their oppressors—   
and they have no comforter.

And I declared that the dead,  
who had already died,  
are happier than the living,  
who are still alive.

But better than both  
is he who has not yet been,  
who has not seen the evil  
that is done under the sun.

-Ecclesiastes 4:1-3, The Bible.

They drag me through the halls, around corners, and mock me all the way.

"Aw, the poor wraith," one taunts. "Can't even stand. Don't you want to feed?"

I want to turn my head, hiss at him, make him stop. He knows how this humiliates me, and this is why he does this. But I do not. I have not the strength, and know it would only earn me a taste of the pain stick—I would not survive.

"Ooh, he's mad," the other says. "Better watch out. After he gets a taste of Sheppard, he may try to come after you!" and they laugh.

So that is where they are taking me—not to die, but to prolong my suffering, and use me to cause suffering. I wonder that they can think themselves better than Wraith. Yes we kill, but we kill to live. Yes, the feeding is painful for the humans, but the pain lasts less than a minute, and it is over. Even the worst among us never use another creature as they use me. Never to we prolong suffering as they prolong mine.

I decide that this time, I will not feed. I have told myself this before, but this time I _will not_! The will to live has always trumped my will to cease the torture, but now my will to die is stronger. If I feed on him, it will not satisfy my hunger, or gain me the strength to escape. It will only gain me a few years more agony, rotting in that cell, praying for death to claim me.

They drag me into a bright room—the light hurts my eyes.

"Sheppard could have left you to rot down in that hole when we last met, Kolya. He does _not_ deserve this," I hear a voice from nowhere tell the captor.

"Let's be clear, Doctor McKay. No-one does," the captor tells the voice, and I understand—he is using me to coerce another, and my anger towards him burns hotter than my hunger. How dare he! Humans are the most despicable race.

"Don't do this," another voice, female, says. One of the guards grabs my arm and removes the guard. How I long to feed on them all! But especially the captor.

"Don't do this," she pleads again. I will myself to restrain the urge to feed, to lunge forward at Sheppard's exposed chest and feed, to quench the fire burning my body and soul.

"The choice is yours, Doctor Weir. Do we have an arrangement?" the captor asks the voice. It does not answer. "Very well."

He nods to my guards and they release me. I summon all the strength I have just to stand. I look at the man tied to the chair, and I snarl, not at him, but at myself—the will to live tramples my wish to die, and my hand flies to his chest against my will.

Oh, how good this man's strength is! He is strong, stronger than anyone I have fed upon before. His life flows through my hand, quenching the fire and at the same time feeding it. Water quenches a fire, but in small amounts, it only produces steam, spreading the heat where it did not burn before.

Before I get enough to even begin to slake my thirst, I feel the pain stick being prodded into my side, and I arch my back in agony. They pull me away from Sheppard, and drag me out of the room. Again they jab me with the pain stick, and the world fades into a black haze. Cowards. Torturers. I hate them all. But I thank the spirits for the few years of Sheppard's life I was able to take.


	3. Anger, Guilt and Glee

**Anger, Guilt, and Glee  
**

**A/N:**Thank you to all who reviewed my story! As I update, there have been 555 hits on the story. Not bad, consisdering it has not yet been up a full 48 hours. I hope this chapter continues to please, although I want out a bit on a limb with the wraith's thoughts this time. I merely speculate on what some of the things we don't know about the wraith are. Please leave a review and let me know if you liked it, so I know if I should continue in this vein.

**Disclaimer:** Okay, I am only going to say this once more for this story. If you don't know it by now, hear this. I do not own anything relating to Stargate Atlantis, persons, places or otherwise. If I ever do, I will post it in big letters on my bio page. No profit was gained by the writing of this story(Unless you consider the continuance of my appearance of sanity to be a profit).

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I wake in my cell again, and I am furious at myself, and at the same time glad. I berate myself for being so weak, for being unable to resist the temptation to feed. I have sealed my continued torture. I knew I would never be allowed to take as much as I need, yet I could not stop myself, for the mere hope that the fire might be quenched, somewhere. A part of me is glad. Life, even an agonized, imprisoned one, is still life.

I hear them bring Sheppard in, and I move myself to lean against the wall, and wait for him to regain consciousness. I dread the moment he awakes. As much as I loathe the human race for what they have done to me and what they do to themselves, I enjoyed hearing a voice that offered hope, no matter how foolish, and did not mock me. For many millennia, I heard the voices of my brothers, and for a time my sisters, in the background of my mind, constant companions. Imprisoned here, their voices are gone—they are too distant, I too weak—and I long for them, the words of friendship and not hatred.

I trace the tattoos on my face with my finger, and remember the days when I was free. I remember my youth, so long ago, the Atlantians and the Wraith were not yet locked in the end game, were not even at war, really. When Hives were smaller, consisting of only a few families. When we remembered that we too are mortal, and did not look to be worshipped.

I hear Sheppard groan and begin to stir in the next cell. I want to hear his voice. Thinking of my brothers makes me long for a friendly voice, though I know that he will soon become like the others, hating me for what I am, for what I did. I think of what I would do if the bars were not between us, and I not shackled. I would drain him of his life, and…then I stop. It is useless to speculate, and even if I were to drain him until he were dust, I would have no hope of escaping alive. A few jabs with a pain stick, a shot from their guns, and I would go down, die, and his life would have been wasted. The younger generations may have forgotten the lessons our forefathers passed on to us, but I have not—take only what you need, never end a life unless you both need it and can use it. Do not waste life senselessly.

"They called you Sheppard," I say, hoping for a few words without hate before he realized who I am.

"Yeah. That's my name. Pleased to meet you," he replies, and from his tone I wonder if he suspects yet…I realize that he does not, he speaks thus because he is in pain, as I am.

"You're in pain," I comment, not sure if I am sympathizing, or just trying to avoid the inevitable discovery.

"Well, I just got fed on by a Wraith, what do you think?" his voice drips sarcasm, and for a moment I feel sorry for him. I never intended to cause him pain. Another lesson of my parents—be merciful when feeding: feed quickly, and end their pain.

"I would not know," I tell him, and it is true, although I once came within seconds of being fed upon. He does not yet hear my voice has gotten stronger, but not by much. I now sound like a human, but no longer an old one.

"Hopefully, you'll never have to find out," he says, and groans again as he moves a bit. "I didn't think anything could hurt that much."

Again I feel a brief pang of guilt. I am ashamed to have thus betrayed my ancestors, and to have sunk to the level of a human, leaving another creature to suffer. But my anger is aroused—he is no better than us, what right has he to set himself up so? Does he not care the agony I suffer?

"You're still alive," I say, now staving off the moment of discovery and at the same time forcing him to betray his prejudices against me and my people.

"Yeah, well ... I don't know how many years the darned thing took off my life, but I'll tell you this: if Kolya's men hadn't have pulled that damned thing off, I'd be dust in a flak jacket," he says. He cursed me, and I wonder, does he blame me, or the man who allowed me to feed, or rather, put me in a position where I could not resist _his_ desire for me to feed?

"Do you blame the Wraith or the master?" I ask him, standing and walking so that I am still in the shadows, but I can see him leaning against the cell wall. He looks not so young anymore, and there is a wound where I fed. His face is tensed in pain.

"I'm gonna go with both," he replies, stating it as though it were an obvious question. I wonder if he has ever thought of us as more than killers, more than monsters hiding in the dark.

"There is a difference. The Wraith must feed in order to live," I tell him. My voice is level, not angry…yet.

"For Wraith, hunger burns like a fire," I continue, and I see him haul himself up and come to stand by the window between the cells, clearly trying to see who I am. As I speak, I feel my strength draining, the hunger gnawing at me like insects at a corpse.

"Tell me, Sheppard, if you found yourself burning alive, would you settle for just one drop of water…" I ask him as he draws nearer, and the desire rises in me to get to him, to feed and kill the insatiable thirst, "Or would you take more?"

"Where'd you hear em call me Sheppard?" he asks, clearly suspicious now, and a part of me wishes I had not called him by name, kept letting him believe I was human, if only to afford me a few hours of hearing a friendly voice. But my anger is boiling as my hunger grows, and I wish to see how he reacts. A part of me wants to see him soften. A part, fear.

I step forward into the light, so he can see my face.

"Just before I started to feed," I snarl.


	4. The Very Young

**The Very Young**

**A/N:** Thank you to all who reviewed. HAving recieved the okay to continue in my vein of speculation, I shall, and hope it continues to please. Remember, the dialogue in this chapter is taken from the show, and is not mine.

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Sheppard glares at me angrily, and begins to storm about his cell, fuming. I watch him, and surreptitiously lean against the wall—my strength is fading fast, but I do not mind—if I use it up, I can die more quickly, or perhaps I will not have the strength to feed the next time.

"Your anger will only weaken you," I tell him, but he continues to pace. He reminds me of one of my sons, a warrior, refusing to back down.

"I don't think so," he snaps back, pacing all the more quickly, as though to spite me. He is very young, I realize. He cannot be more than thirty years of age. A child still. I cannot expect him to be considerate or wise. I wonder if that is why the human race is so troubled—they never grow out of childhood, aging and dying before they can find temperance, wisdom, or any of the other things that can only come with age and experience.

"You realize he is torturing both of us?" I ask him, wondering if he is old enough to think beyond himself.

"Oh, yeah? What'd he do to you?" he replies shortly, pausing briefly in his pacing. I realize he cannot see me as anything other than the object of his torture, and so I try to bring him out of himself. Would he blame a red-hot iron for branding him? A whip for scourging him? These objects have as much control over their actions as I did.

"He stopped me," I reply harshly, hoping that he will stop his brooding long enough to listen. I do not want him to go to the world beyond without some amount of understanding, and I suppose I look for a certain degree of forgiveness.

He stops to glower at me. "Really? And how is _that_ torture?"

He is listening, if only for the moment. I try to think of the best way to make him understand.

"Have you ever known starvation, Sheppard?" I ask him as he begins to pace again. "The few years I took from you are barely enough to keep me alive. The strength I gained from you is already fading."

"I don't really give a damn," he shoots back, his ire growing by the second.

"You pace in your cell, cursing that I took years from you. I stand here cursing that I was not allowed them all. Each in our own way, we suffer," I tell him, as I lean more and more against the cell wall. It takes all the strength I have to stay upright, and I wonder how long it will be before the next "session". If it is soon, I may not be able to resist my need. If it is still an hour or more away, I may yet drain myself to the point of no return. He is furious now. I hope he does not come to the window, or I know I will try to get to him…

He storms over to the window between us, grabbing the bars, his eyes blazing.

"This might come as a surprise to you, but I'm not really in the mood for conversation. So why don't you just do me a favour and SHUT THE HELL UP!" he shouts, unable to control himself anymore.

As am I. Ignoring my will, my hand flies through the bars, trying to grab a hold of him, but thankfully the wall is too thick. I curse under my breath, though whether at myself or him or whoever built the wall, I know not.

"These are your last hours, Sheppard. If you wish to spend them in silence, then so be it," I snarl at him, my temper getting the better of me as I loose patience with the boy.

"No. I'm getting out of here," he declares defiantly, and walks away from the window. I withdraw my hand, and watch him with curiosity. His anger seems to have dissipated, replaced with this feverish energy, stemming from his foolish conviction that he will be rescued. "I've got a life to go back to and I'm damned well going back to it."

I remember thinking similar thoughts, but such hope is quickly killed in this place. Nevertheless, I cannot help but sense his surety, and wonder if his trust is better placed than mine was.

"You're sure of that?" I ask, not sure if I am mocking him, and so doing that which I abhor. It would have been better to die, I muse, than to spend all these years among humans, and become like them.

He walks over to the wall opposite me, and leans heavily against it. He seems as exhausted as I. "Yeah. I've got friends," he says with a conviction I envy, and then sinks wearily down the wall with a groan. "And they're gonna come for me."

I watch him with eyes at once hateful and pitiful. "I hope you continue to believe that the next time I feed."


	5. Memories

**My Son**

**A/N:** Cainwen: Again I am astounded at the reviews urging me onward with my story

Wraith: Your story?

Cainwen: As you can see, the Wraith has taken over. Any complaints from here on out, address to him.

Wraith: Stop talking!

Cainwen: Yes sir. Dialog from show, not mine. All else, mine.

Wraith: TYPE!

_begins typing to save my life._

_llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll _

Sheppard stares at me with hatred in his eyes, and then closes them, seemingly in a great deal of pain.

I now regret speaking to him as I did. I spoke as one of the younglings, full of fire and hate, brimming with the stories they were told of what the Atlantians did to us, not as one of the Ancients.

_Do not taunt them, _my father told me_. To do so is to end their lives with hatred, and they will remember that you were hateful, not merciful: the spirits will hold it against you. Remember, you will not live forever. Your days may not have a limit as men do, but nevertheless, you will die, and the Spirits will judge you. Give no one a reason to speak against you, especially the humans. You will be judge more on what you did to those weaker than you, than what you did to your equals._

I lean against the wall, berating myself. I wish now I could take back my words.

I watch Sheppard—he seems to have fallen into an uneasy sleep. Again I am reminded of my youngest son. Gilleasbachan. Yes, that was his name. "Wise strength".

"_Father, why do you stun the humans before you feed?"_

_I looked at him. "So they do not feel the pain. Why do you ask?"_

"_Why?"_

"_So that it may go well with me when I die."_

"_We will not die."_

_I drew him to me, and looked him in the eye. _

"_Who told you that?"_

"_The warrior who stayed with us last night. He told me that we are immortal, we will not die, that the humans were made to feed us, and that we will outlive the Atlantians."_

"_That was a lie," I told him. "We may live long, but we are not immortal—time will see the death of even the stars. Do you think yourself greater than the stars?"_

"_No, I am not greater than the stars," he looked at me, and thought for a moment. "Father, what will happen when we die?"_

"_Ah," I said, drawing him onto my lap, and touching his mind with my own, to better show him what I meant. "We will go to the land beyond the night—"_

My memories are cut short by the arrival of the guards. They make a great deal of noise, clanging about. They go into Sheppard's cell, and take him out without much protest. He is severely weakened in body by his tirade, but I can see his spirit is still strong.

I wait for them to return for me. I am too strong to die yet—they came too soon, and yet, too late for me to resist my instinct. The weaker I am, the stronger the base instinct to survive—the instinct to survive is different than the will to live: living implies a purpose, actions and consequences. Surviving requires only existence.

The two guards return for me. They still have their pain sticks at their sides—they realize I am still to weak to resist them, but they do not taunt me this time. Perhaps seeing what I did to Sheppard has put fear into them. They each take hold of one of my arms, and lead me out of the cell. I stumble as I walk, but my legs support most of my weight as I travel down the halls. We pause outside the torture chamber where I will once again be reduced to nothing more than an object.

"Bring in the wraith," the captor says, and I am once again led into the burning light, where Sheppard waits, tied to a chair. His fear is palpable to me, and I hate myself.

The captor faces a contraption; I think it is a camera of some primitive sort. "Doctor Weir. As promised," he says to it. He speaks so cordially, so calmly. He values life so little, it sickens me. Humans know mortality so well—so why then do they waste what little time they and others are given? Why do they squander life so?

"Where's Sheppard?" the female voice asks. I wonder—does Sheppard's people live in hives as we do, with a queen to rule?

"I'm pleased to see you're wasting no time. So neither will I," he says so smoothly, I wish to tear at his throat and destroy that voice that has caused so much pain to so many. How can he do this? How can he force others to watch their brother being tortured?

He steps out of the line of the camera, which focuses in on Sheppard, and I standing behind him with a guard on each side. I wonder what the humans on the other end see when they see this—do they hate me for simply existing? Do they want to kill me as much as I want to kill myself for what I have done?

One of the guards undoes the straps of the guard on my hand; I shake it off with distaste and I cannot help but flex my fingers—they have long been held immobile, and now Sheppard's dried blood on my palm makes it all the more stiff. A growl rises in my chest. I know they think I do so in anticipation of my next feed, but I do so out of hatred, and the desire to lay this bloodied hand, not on Sheppard, but on the Captor, and end their torture, and mine—the guards would surely shoot me. Death is the only way out of this prison.

I see Sheppard turn his head to look at me with dread—they have gagged him, so he cannot scream. I wish I had a stunner—I would not hurt him.

The captor steps back in front of the camera and says to the woman on the other side, "Will you turn Ladon Radim over to me in exchange for Colonel Sheppard?"

Sheppard shakes his head, trying to send her a message, perhaps helping her to stay strong. Again I admire his courage, and again he reminds me of my son.

"Dr. Weir?" he asks again, growing impatient.

"No."

Her voice sounds like she has forced it to be strong, but there is a timbre of sorrow and pain underneath. The captor becomes angry—he was not expecting the female to be so strong. Another failing of humans—underestimating the strength of females. This, though wraith certainly have many flaws, has never been one of ours.

Sheppard nods, letting her know he does not blame her.

For a moment, anger flashes over the captor's face, and then the cold mask returns.

"I can only conclude you doubt my sincerity," he replies, and turns to the guards, giving them the signal to release me.

I walk over, my feet going where I do not want them to. Walk to the captor. Kill him slowly, drain him until he is dust. Eternal hunger would be worth ridding the universe of this scum.

But my feet take me to stand by Sheppard, and my hand moves over the wound in his chest. For a moment, I can hold myself back. I look at Sheppard, and I see my son. I see his strength, his honor, his courage, and his hope. I see a child, lost in a universe far too big for him, and run by other, vicious children.

But my hand locks onto his chest, and I roar, not in pleasure at feeding, though the energy coursing through me is welcome, giving me new life. No, I roar out of anger. I could not stop myself. I lacked the courage of even this human to do what I know to be right.


	6. A Son's Strength

**A Son's Strength**

**A/N **

Cainwen: I am so so sorry I did not update yesterday. The internet was wacky, and I had papers to write--

Wraith: Why are you making excuses!

Cainwen: I have to apologise and thank my readers!

Wraith: Just get on with _my_ story and they will thank you for not talking!

Cainwen: Okay okay! Dialog other than the guards, not mine. Complaints, talk to him( points to wraith glaring over shoulder)

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I do not resist as they drag me off him, and pull me out of the room, back to my cell. As we go, and I walk limply between them, they cast me strange looks.

"You think he's sick?" one asks the other, clearly perplexed as to why I am so resigned and dejected.

"Can't be. Unless, maybe its like you have to start out on thin broth after starving. Maybe Sheppard was too much like a steak dinner," the other says as they shove me into my cell. I stumble, and then right myself, coming to lean again at the cell window, waiting for them to return Sheppard.

I tell myself I will apologize, ask his forgiveness, but I know I will not. He would not believe my sincerity.

A moment later, they drag him back to the cell, looking much as I did after the first feeding. He looks like an old man, hair grey, face wrinkled. He collapses on the floor, simply breathing for a minute before dragging himself over to lean against the wall between the two cells. I want to hear his voice, assure myself I have not drained him too much.

"Where are your friends?" I ask, saying the first thing that comes to mind, and am surprised to hear my voice—it has become stronger, deepening, with the guttural purr behind it that marks me as wraith.

"They'll be here," he says, but he is weak. His voice is old, shaky and tired. I wonder what it is he feels. Does he feel only the pain? Or does he feel his exhaustion more? Does he hate me all the more for what I did? Does he want to lie down, go to sleep and awake no more? Or does he pray to his god, or gods, or spirits that this is no more than a nightmare from which he will awake? Does he know that what has been done to him can be reversed, that all his years can be returned to him? Or does he think that, even should he escape, as he hopes, that he will have only a few years left to live as an old man?

I wonder too that he still has faith in his people, still insists that he will be rescued.

"You still believe that," I say, both as a question and as a statement of amazement. After all this, he still has faith, still has hope. All the men before him were sure of rescue, but only until I fed once, and then they were broken…

"Yeah, I do. They just need more time," he tells me, shifting uncomfortably below the window, out of my sight. He does not speak with hatred in his voice. Perhaps a part of my words before reached his ears. Perhaps his anger at the captor is hotter than his hatred for me. Perhaps he is simply too tired to hate, all his energy focused on the hope of escape.

"No-one has ever left this place alive," I tell him. I do not wish to destroy all his hope, but he must realize what he has to look forward to in the last hours of his life, and I would not have him die destroyed by the realization that he could not escape, his people never came, or could not find him. I would have him face this reality: fight against it, but realize it for what it is. Perhaps too, I would have him die in his sleep, not at my hand.

"Yeah, well, I'm going to," he declared confidently. I wonder at his strength. Many men have sat in that cell, but never have I met a man like this. The others wept and cursed, or lay on the stone floor, their spirits broken beyond measure.

I wonder, did my son act as Sheppard does? Did he stay strong? Did he believe he would be rescued?

"Kolya will kill you before your friends have a chance to reach these cells," my mouth says, even as my mind is on Gilleasbachan. Why does my body do that which I do not will it to do?

Sheppard does not respond immediately. I wonder if he has fallen asleep, or perhaps he has died, the strain too much even for him to bear.

"How well do you know the layout of this place?" he asks. And in his voice, I hear that his mind is racing with schemes, young, foolish schemes, that will only earn him a slower death than even I can give.

"Well enough to know what they would be up against," I tell him, trying to discourage him from his foolhardy plans. Is this what my son did? Did he plan impossible escapes?

I hear Sheppard moving below the window, grunting in pain, and then his face appears in the window, His face is haggard, but determined, the fire of his spirit blazing in his eyes.

"What about us? Do you know enough about this place to get _us_ out?" he asks me, his voice full of boyish eagerness. I am taken aback. Surely, he does not mean for me to escape? I heard his offer that his team may break me out, but at the time, he thought me to be human. Does he truly trust me enough to escape with me? Or will he use me to escape, use me as a shield, and leave me to die?

"You and me?" I ask, incredulous, suspicious. Can I trust _him_?

"What, are they gonna let you go after I'm dead?" he retorts sarcastically. I want to laugh. So much like my son…

"No," I say, my voice flat.

"Then what've you got to lose?" he asks, the eagerness undisguised in his voice.

"My life," my mouth responds. I do not care about my life. What is it worth here?

"Oh, yeah, you've got a great one down here," he taunts. I snarl. His sarcasm grates on my ears. "Listen, it makes sense. We have a common goal."

For a fleeting moment, hope and courage awaken in me, rekindling the fire in my spirit I had thought had died long ago in these forsaken cells. A longing, buried deep in my soul, surfaces—the longing to see the sky, to breath the air not tainted by the stone, to hear the song the stars and trees sing…I had almost forgotten…

These thoughts are quickly crushed by practicality. We would never get beyond the iron bars. I would fall down twenty feet from my cell without support, and Sheppard could not last much longer. Could he?

"As I said before, there is no escape," I say sadly. Disappointment rips through me and I turn away from Sheppard so he does not see how close I am to tears—never again will I see the stars…


	7. A Meeting of Minds

**A Meeting Of Minds**

**A/N: **Cainwen: Thank you all so much! I wasn't able to respond to everyone who revierwed, but know that your praise was appreciated beyond measure!

Wraith: Why are you talking? Again!

Cainwen:(whispered) Two things: thanks to the prodding of several persons, including Susn and Amaruk, I am planning to write at least one and very possibly more stories with this wriath, and possibly Sheppard. Also, a mini contest: Who can guess the correct pronunciation of the names of the wraith's son and wife?

Wraith(snarls)

Cainwen: Right, on with the story...

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Sheppard sits down once again, leaning wearily against the wall beneath the window. When I am sure he is sitting and plans to stay there, I too sit, easing my bones, old beyond measure, to the cold stone floor. As the pain of the hunger lessens, I realize how much my body has deteriorated as it has starved. My joints are stiff, my muscles are weak and ache.

My head hangs forward, and tears rise to my eyes, though they do not fall.

Have I not the courage of a human?

Gilleasbachan would have been ashamed of me. All my children would have been. Could I have faced my beloved wife, knowing I did not grab the opportunity to escape, and to in someway repay my debt to Sheppard?

I know I could not.

My thoughts wander as I wait for the time until the next session to pass. I think of my beloved Seàrlaid. Her beauty was unsurpassed in the days of old, and the younglings have never come close to her. Her long silken hair, silver as the starlight, her skin so supple, her voice that wrapped me in its rich loveliness…

My mind conjurors up a picture of her standing in front of our hive, small though it was, holding Gilleasbachan as an infant, swaying back and forth in the wind…

Again my thoughts are jarred at the arrival of the guards. They bring us out together this time. My guards have their painsticks primed, but at their sides. As I step out of my cell, Sheppard looks at me, and I look back. He looks away, but then starts to turn to face me again, before one of the guards hits him with his gun, dazing him, and he is shoved along in front of me and my guards.

A thought occurs to me. I can know his intentions.

We are forced along the dark passages, until we are once again in the torture room. Sheppard is shoved onto the flimsy wooden chair, and his hands strapped behind him, binding him to the chair. I am placed beside him, the guard on my hand removed, and two men stand behind me with pain sticks, in case I try to feed before the captor gives the order. I know his name. But I will not think it. His name gives him strength. If I think of him only as what he is, and not who, I deny him power…

He faces the device, addressing Sheppard's leader, again trying to trade Sheppard's life for another. How I hate him, so callus, so stupid is he! He cannot comprehend the strength of these people…

"He still has years ahead of him, Doctor Weir. My offer stands," he tells her temptingly, as though he were trying to seduce her…

"So does my answer," comes the reply, and I can feel Sheppard's approval at her refusal to give into his demands. The captor barely contains his anger.

"Then you're effectively ending his life," he tells her, half-cajoling, half-threatening. Sheppard bristles beside me…

"I'm not gonna go there," she says, and I wonder what she means—go where?

"Is Ladon there?" the captor asks. I want to strangle him, I do not even wish to feed on this slime—to feed on such a one would not only sicken me, it would mark my spirit…

"I am," a new voice says. The voice is young, almost boyish. Why does the captor want with this one? He does not sound like a warrior who could have harmed the captor…

"I can't help but wonder what you've told them so they'd choose you over one of their own," the captor baits him. Does he realize how much he is torturing me, with so many good, strong men around me, to whom I feel no debt, would feel no sorrow in draining dry…

"That I betrayed you. That I took for myself what you believed to be yours," the voice replies. A betrayal? A theft? This is what the captor tortures us for! Betrayal by a boy! What could the child have possibly taken? A female?

"The truth? I must say I'm surprised," the captor says, and I wonder if I hear the slightest amount of respect in his voice, or if it is only sarcasm.

"If you release him, you may return to our people with my promise of amnesty," the boy says. Amnesty? The boy is a ruler?

"Please, Ladon, I trained you better than that. There are things that cannot be undone," the captor responds. Trained? The boy was a follower? What had he done? What could possibly merit the torture of another?

"That's not true. You can end this," the woman says, reasonably, pleadingly, desperately. I know what is coming next, and I prepare myself to do what I must…

"Strange, Doctor, I was just about to say the same thing," he says, and the guards step away from me. He turns to me.

"Take your fill."

I do not pause this time. I turn and slam my hand onto Sheppard's chest, but I restrain my instinct to drain quickly. I slow it to a trickle. I am sorry to cause him pain, but it the only way I can do it. I must see his mind. I need not pry. I simply lower my guard, and his thoughts flow into mine. His head rolls back in agony. How can I do this to him?

His thoughts swirl through mine, and mine with his. I see images of men and women, some like him, others not, all he regards as family. A dark woman, fiery and calm, gentle and fierce, whom he loves, but dares not tell…A man tortured by younglings, strong, a fighter…a man with much knowledge, and little wisdom…a woman, wise, strong and peaceful….a man from a distant place of rain and mountains, a healer…much sorrow, much joy…

But I feel him weakening. Even the trickle I take from him is too much. I ease his mind into a deep sleep, so he does not feel the pain…

"Who told you to stop?" the captor asks angrily. My mind races to gather itself.

"He is near death," I say, which is not entirely a lie. "Shall I finish him?"

The captor looks at me and Sheppard in disgust, and then snarls to the guards, "Get it out of here."

The guards grab ahold of my arms, and drag me from the room. As I leave, I hear the captor growl to the people, "Now it's _two_ hours."

Two hours. Time enough for John Sheppard to gather his strength. Time enough to plan our escape.


	8. NOW He Wants To Escape

**NOW He Wants To Escape...**

**A/N:**Cainwen: I am so so sorry! I throw myself at your mercy. Real life was being a big nasty dragon with a headache and a vendetta against me, so I am slow in updating, and it is entirely possible that I may not update for another week--

Wraith: You are talking again!

Cainwen: Yes! I had to explain! By the way, **trecebo**, my glowering taskmaster is curious--if you enjoy the way I tell his story so much, why do you want him to light me on fire?

Wraith: GET ON WITH IT!

Cainwen: yes sir! (Types frantically with burned fingers)(whispers) by the way, no one guessed the names correctly. One more shot, and then I will tell you. Eek!

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The guards drag me back to the cells. They decide this time to jab me with the painsticks to force me to go where they would have me go, though I do not offer them any resistance. The pain sears my body, and I double over in pain. I am dazed by the time they throw me into my cell and slam the door shut with a clang.

I lay gasping on the floor for a moment, trying to separate the pain of electrocution from that of hunger and old age. I drag myself over to the wall between the cells and lean against it, letting the cool stone ease the pain in my back where the pain sticks burned my flesh. I am not yet strong enough. Normally, these wounds would be healed almost before I noticed them. But I have starved for too long. My body will not waste what precious energy it has on healing relatively minor burns. It will store it, make it last as long as possible.

I hear them dragging Sheppard into the next cell, and lay him on the floor, shutting the door noisily as they leave. I get up, and look through the cell window, leaning against the ledge.

Sheppard is still unconscious, as I planned. He will remain so for another 15 minutes or so, and so I take this time to ponder him. He is now very old looking, perhaps a man of seventy hard winters. His hair is almost white, his skin wrinkled and pale. His shoulders no longer fill his jacket, his hands curled and claw-like.

I think back on all the images I saw in his mind. The woman whom he loves—she has known fear, has seen the worst side wraith can show, but she stays strong, handles all with a grace and dignity I had not thought that humans still possessed.

My mind wanders to Seàrlaid…how much I loved her! Her spirit was pure, tempered with wisdom and kindness; she was as much a partner as she was a wife, as much spirit as wraith. When she danced, it were as though starlight had joined with wind, so beautiful and graceful was she…

John begins to groan and stir. I watch him, gauging his strength. He wakes, and pushes himself up, propping himself on his elbows. He looks around a moment before his eyes fix on me.

"You know, I could've sworn I was gonna wake up dead today," he says, and I am not sure if it is in jest, sarcasm or all seriousness. But his voice is shaky and old…I fear I may have taken too much…

"You are strong. Stronger than any human I have ever fed upon," I tell him, hoping to—what am I hoping? To encourage him? To make him angry, to give him strength?

He seems to be deep in thought for a moment, and then he says, unbelievingly, "You stopped yourself."

He remembers? I thought I had given him the gift of unconsciousness before I stopped…

"Yes," I reply simply. How can I explain to him? If he remembers me stopping, does he remember how I gazed into his mind? Does he remember what he saw, what he _must_ have seen in my mind? Does he remember the images of my wife, Gilleasbachan, my other sons and daughters?

He looks confused. Perhaps he does not remember. Humans have a rather peculiar trait—if their minds cannot understand something, it is simply rejected, thrown out, forgotten.

"Why?"

I think. Would he understand that he is like my son? Would he understand that I now trust him to have honor? No, he is a child. He would not understand.

"Because the longer I feed, the weaker you become," I pause. How do I say this so he will undestand? How much do I tell him? "And we will need what strength you have left to escape," I say at last, saying the least I possibly could. How could a human understand the depths of emotion?

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, _now_ he wants to escape!" he cried sarcastically.

I chuckle. There is life in this boy yet. The strength of my son…


	9. Set The Captives Free

**Set the Captives Free**

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**A/N** Cainwen: Hullo, lovely reader and unspeakably lovely reviewers! 

Wraith (growls menacingly)

Cainwen: Okay, I'll make this quick. Susn gets vitual cookies for guessing the correct pronunciation of the names. gil LES puh chan and SHAWR lutch. They are Gaelic, but I hope you can give me a break--I have no clue what "real" wraith names are, and, having listened to Radio Nan Gaidheal on the BBC, I couldn't help but think that this gutteral, syblant language might be similar to what wraith-ese might be. Anyway, the escape will have to be broken up into parts, unless you want it to take me a month to update.

Wraith: You! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Cainwen: Writing sir!

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"Well," he says, grunting as he rises, "We better have a plan. Urgh" He pushes himself off the floor with an effort and comes over to the window. "Any ideas?" 

I allow myself a small smile. Planning, strategy. Using wit instead of numbers. It is a skill many wraith have lost, as the queens took power and hives grew, stealth and intelligence became a less valued commodity—numbers were all they used, sheer force.

"There will only be four guards coming," I think aloud. " Can you eliminate yours?" I ask warily, for he is weak, despite his spirit's strength.

"Yeah, sure," he shrugs it off. "Can you handle yours, I mean, what with those chains and all?" He points to the shackles that limit my movement. My smile broadens, and I bear my teeth.

"They will not hinder me," I tell him. Already I know what I will do. I have had many years to weigh plans…

"Great. Once we get ridda them, we better get outta here. You know how to get outta here and get to the stargate?" his voice is eager, the prospect of escape gives him energy he would not otherwise have. His excitement is contagious. Despite my misgivings, my surety that I am only doing this to end our suffering quickly, I cannot help but feel my spirit rise within me, cannot smother the spark of hope that I may sees the stars again before I die.

"Yes," I say, but I wonder, do I? It was many, many years ago. How many captors have come and gone? How many guards? How many different weapons? How many times have they improved the pain sticks? How many times have they refitted the cell bars, because the old ones were rusting? How many times did I hope I was beyond this world, only to be dragged back?

"Well, better get some rest," John Sheppard says, and eases himself down beneath the window. "By the way, don't supposed you'd tell me your name? What with us escaping together and all."

I think…Do I dare tell him my name? Names have power…the younglings may have forgotten why we do not reveal our names, but I remember. My name is _me_. If Sheppard were to learn my name, he could place a curse on me and my family, in life or death. And a part of me still trusts him not. No, I will not tell him…now.

"I have forgotten it," I tell him, and it could almost be a truth. What does a name matter if there is no one to call you home by it?

"You must _really_ have been here a long time," he scoffs, and lies down on the cold floor. "What is it with you wraith and the whole 'I'm not gonna tell you my name' thing?"

"You would not understand."

"Humph," he snorts, and lies down; his eyes close and soon he is asleep.

I walk to the middle of my cell, shrouded in the darkness, and begin the warrior's dance. I spread my feet and begin the slow movements, stretching muscles long unused, rolling shoulders, loosening joints long locked. As I continue, I feel life coursing through me in a way I had forgotten it could, at once like cooling water soothing the flames of hunger and like fire bringing new strength.

My mind calms as I do this, the passions of the day fading, but older ones rise. I think of teaching, not just Gilleasbachan, but all my children this dance, this exercise, this ritual, all in one. Helping them to learn the complicated patterns, helping them to hear the music of life as they do it…do any teach their children these things anymore? Or has this too been forgotten, children risen as a hive, all with one mother, all other wraith their father, and no one to hold them?

I wonder how we could have become as we are, how we could have forgotten? How could we have allowed ourselves to forget the love of the family, the laws of the spirits, how could we have submitted ourselves to a queen, forgetting our wives for her? How could we have been so blind? How could we have let our children be taken?

And I think to myself, no, not all the children—

I hear the guards come clanking down the corridor, and I stop the dance, standing still in the middle of my cell, bathed in darkness. I hiss at Sheppard, and I feel him awaken, though he does not move.

The guards walk to the cells, and bring us out. John feigns weakness, as the guards support him as they lead him out of the cell. Mine own guards are wary, but they are confident that they can still control me, and I hold myself as I did before, stiff, weak, and resigned.

As I step out of my cell, my guards on either side, I see John suddenly straighten and throw himself backwards into his guards. I take the opportunity afforded me as mine are distracted, grabbing the guard on my right and throwing him to the wall, where he crumples, then wrapping my chains around the neck of the guard on my left before he can react or reach his painstick.

I position myself so he is backed up against the cell bars, and I can hit my right hand against the wall which protrudes several feet beyond the cell. As I do so, it jerks the chain tighter around the guard's neck—he does not need to be wholly alive for me to feed—and it breaks the primitive metal lock on the guard on my hand that has prevented my feeding on this one before.

I hear the lock snap, and I shake off the hated glove furiously, before I plunge my hand onto the man's chest, draining him of his misbegotten life.

I feel no sorrow, no guilt, no loss of honor as I do this—never have I fed thusly out of choice until now. But this man, this _piece of slime_ does not deserve a peaceful death. Has he not tortured me? How many of his fellow men has he killed? How many has he tortured? How many widows, how many orphans has he made? Did he feel even a fleck of remorse at bringing me to feed on Sheppard, one of the few humans with spirit, with honor, with courage, that I have met in my thousands of years of life?

Pain tears through my back, again and again and again. I roar as each concussive noise is followed by another stab in my back. I turn in agony to see that my other guard has come around and is firing his gun into my back. I cannot attack him, my chains are still wrapped around the neck of the man I feed on, and if I were to break off feeding, I do not think I would survive the few steps to stop him. I concentrate on tearing the life from the guard, that I may heal the wounds before I get the other one, but he fires another three times, and then there is the sound of a knife flying and finding its mark as the man goes down with a grunt.

I have no time to look. I drain the life from my former guard, and roar in pain as the wounds close around the bullets. The man goes limp, and there is no life left in him. I feel Sheppard's eyes on me, and I wonder that he did not stop me from feeding. I shake my chains free of the dead man's neck, and walk, slowly, stiffly, over towards Sheppard, who is bending over one of his guards. I stop a pace from him, I do not want to frighten him. I may trust him, but he does not trust me, and I do not want to give him a reason to dispose of me.

He looks up at me, and tosses me something. I automatically catch it in my hand, and I look at it. He has given me the keys to my shackles—perhaps he does trust me to a degree, or perhaps he does not want their noise to give away our presence. I look at him, for many thoughts are running through my mind at once, but then I begin to unlock the hated shackles, ridding myself of them as quickly as may be. I shake off those that bind my ankles, and straighten.

John Sheppard is watching me, unsure of me. What does he see when he sees me? Does he see a captive? Does he see a monster? Does he see a demon? For a moment, we look into each other's eyes, and I wonder, does he see me? A father, a husband, a friend and a brother?

But he looks away again and I know what it is he sees—a monster. A monster who knows how to escape.


	10. Escape

**Escape**

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Cainwen: I am so sorry it took so long to update! Life has exploded in my face, making a difficult chapter even more difficult. 

Wraith: WHY DO YOU KEEP TALKING!

Steve Plushie glares and cracks knuckles omniously

Cainwen: Okay, okay. Thank you to Amaruk, who saw fit to bestow upon my unworthy story a Steve Plushie, and so has added another task master to the one staring over my shoulder. This chapter is unbeta-ed, so please forgive grammar spazzes, they will be corrected. Thanks to all you lovely kind reviewers, I'm sorry I was unable to respond to you all. This chapter was a bit difficult to write, since the director saw fit to make these scenes rather choppy, so I had to fill in the blanks.

both wraith lay hands on either shoulder in warning

Cainwen: laughs nervously Enjoy!

* * *

_He looks up at me, and tosses me something. I automatically catch it in my hand, and I look at it. He has given me the keys to my shackles—perhaps he does trust me to a degree, or perhaps he does not want their noise to give away our presence. I look at him, for many thoughts are running through my mind at once, but then I begin to unlock the hated shackles, ridding myself of them as quickly as may be. I shake off those that bind my ankles, and straighten._

_John Sheppard is watching me, unsure of me. What does he see when he sees me? Does he see a captive? Does he see a monster? Does he see a demon? For a moment, we look into each other's eyes, and I wonder, does he see me? A father, a husband, a friend and a brother? _

_But he looks away again and I know what it is he sees—a monster, who knows how to escape._

He steps towards me, a gun from his guards in each of his hands. He looks at me, and I wonder if he has decided that I am too much a monster, too much a demon for him to trust, if he will kill me and then escape as best he can, for there is a hardness in his eyes. He pauses, and then offers me the handle of one of the guns—a gesture of trust, that he gives me a weapon. We are on equal footing, each able to destroy the other.

"Which way?" he asks, his voice devoid of the boyish excitement that had been there before. He is simply a soldier now, wary and calculating.

I am tired, and the bullets in my chest send out lances of white-hot pain—the life of the guard was not enough, but I know I must ignore the pain, and concentrate if I am ever to see the stars again. I think back, bringing into my mind an image of this place as it was when I first was brought here.

"This way," I say, and I wonder if he hears the haggardness, the exhaustion, the pain in my voice. And I wonder, how are we to make it out? He is old, and in pain from my feeding, despite my best efforts. My wounds, which once would have been minimal, are now most serious, for I am very weak, so long have I starved.

I lead him away from the cells, following the shadows, listening for men, around corners, but always up, always towards the surface.

As we go, it becomes painfully clear to me that neither of us is fit to do this. Sheppard's footsteps are shuffled; I can hear him stumble from time to time. His breathing is laboured, and I when I turn to look at him, his hand is on his chest where I fed. Remorse wells up in me like a flood, and I would do anything to take that wound from him.

_Gilleasbachen, would that I could have taken your place! I mourn him every moment of my life. I failed my child! An unforgivable sin. How could I have let them take you? I should have fought beside you, my son. I should have protested even louder than you the death—_

Lost in my thoughts, I fail to notice the approaching footsteps. But Sheppard hears, and pulls me behind a wide column, shooting me a look, as though wondering why I did not hear it. I give him an icy stare. It is all I can do. I cannot tell him how he brings back memories of my son, nor that I am unsure if I remember where the stargate is.

I cautiously glance around the column, and see there are at least two guards. Are they looking for us? Has the captor realized our escape yet? No, he cannot yet know—it took several minutes to get to the torture chamber, so we should have at least a few minutes more before he becomes suspicious.

As we wait for the approaching footsteps and Sheppard peers around his side of the column to see if there are more men, I look at the weapon he has place in my hand. So hard, so cold, so lifeless. The weapons of the wraith are like our ships, living, breathing, many organisms living together to form the weapon. But this, I think as I run my fingers over the barrel, captivated by the way the sparse light glints on the surface, this is lifeless, and has no purpose other than to kill.

Sheppard catches me examining the weapon, and I realize too late that I had it pointed at his head. He pushes the gun down, and gives me an exasperated look. He realized as soon as he had pushed it down that I was not threatening him, merely curious, and I laugh to myself as I think how he must have seen me! A monster captivated by a shiny piece of metal, even as we try to escape this hell with our lives.

He rolls his eyes as I cock my head by way of apology, then presses a button on the communication device he stole from one of his guards. It crackles, and I can hear similar sounds coming from the same direction as the approaching guards. He gestures to me that he will attack the guard as he comes around the right of the column, and I am to get the one that comes around the left.

Their footsteps stop just short of the pillar we hide behind, and John presses the button again, causing the devices to crackle again. He spins around the pillar, knife in hand, and I hear it pierce the guard as I attack the other. I grasp his shoulder and his head, and snap his neck—a quick death, he had no time to feel the pain. He did not deserve such an easy death: his should have been long and painful…no, that is wrong. None deserve death to slowly consume them. Excepting the captor, and the queens.

The sound of a gun, and pain tears into my side. I roar as I feel the metal pierce skin, shatter bone, and explode within me. Blood flows from the two holes in my side like water from a burst dam. I turn to face my attacker, still holding the dead guard with one hand, and snarl in rage, looking from him to the wounds in my side. His eyes are hard and when he sees that I am not about to attack immediately, he turns and fires at where I know Sheppard to be, though I cannot see him, for a column blocks my view.

As he continues to fire at Sheppard, fear and guilt sweep through me, swirling with pain and threatening to drown me as I try to rid myself of the dead man, for my sleeve has been ensnared by something on his uniform. If Sheppard were to die, it would be as though I had failed Gillesbachan…again…had allowed him to die again.

As I finally free myself, I hear the sound of a different gun being fired, and the man the shot me falls to the ground, his red blood soaking his uniform and pooling on the floor around him.

I hurry over to Sheppard, for I fear that he may still have been hit.

_Dark blood soaks the ground, and I let out a scream of anguish as I see my son lying dead, his throat sliced._

"_Amhalghaidh!" I fall to my knees beside my son, and hold him in my arms, weeping inspite of the glares of the murders. This was my son! He was not yet one hundred. He still could in some way depend on bread for sustance, not yet dependent on humans. _

_What have we become?_

He has used the man he killed as a shield, by I can see that he was hit in the leg—blood trickles through his withered fingers, but he lives, and I see the determined light in his eyes. He looks at my side, and I glance down, and almost touch them—two holes. I do not need to look at them, for I can feel the hot metal deep with in me. They have done great damage, and unless I feed soon on one much stronger than Sheppard, I know my life will flow out of those holes.

I will see my wife again… 

"It will heal," I say, and point down one of the corridors. "This way."

I lead the way, crouching low to ease the pain, slow the bleeding. My blood will not clot as does humans'—the wraith rely on their ability to heal the wound, close the arteries and veins. But I am very weak, and my body will not waste precious life to heal arteries, for it must use the same energy to keep my heart beating.


	11. Second Chances

**Second Chance **

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Cainwen: I am so very sorry to not have had this up sooner. It was very difficult to write, and life is still pursueing its vendetta against me. 

(Steve Plushie and Wraith snarl angrily. I snarl back)

Cainwen: Further, it is very difficult to type with one arm twisted behind your back!(Glares at Steve. Steve huffs) Anyway, thanks to all my reviewers, i simply didn't have time to respond. Thanks to Kyrie for betaing. And for those who want to know the fuller back story of this Wraith(points over shoulder) stick around, because after this is done in about 2-4 chapters, there will be a prequel, yet unnamed, from the point of view of Seàrlaid, his wife.(Wraiths growl). And now, on with the story. Btw, if it sounds Shakespearean, its because I have been reading him and just seen several of his plays preformed. Eek!

* * *

We run, as the living run from encroaching death. 

As I lead Sheppard through the winding maze of the prison, as the corridors grow more colorful and light, as we get further and further from the cells and the torture chamber and closer to freedom and the living world, I know myself to be dying.

We run, as a drowning man struggles frantically to break the surface.

The pain threatens to overwhelm me in its dark flood. I run at a crouch so my coat holds back the torrents of my blood—I would not leave a trail that a blind mouse could follow.

We run, ever upward, ever toward the surface, as the dead may struggle to rise at the end of days when the Ancient of Days and the Spirits will judge men and wraith alike for their crimes.

I do not feel the six bullets of the dying guard encased in my flesh send out their lances of white-hot pain…the shots from the last have turned my organs into rags of flesh, awash in a sea of my blood…

I hear Sheppard struggle along behind me, limping because of the wound in his leg, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

I send a silent prayer to the Spirits, that none of the guards may be near, for I have no energy to spare listening for them. What energy I have, I am using simply to force my heart to beat one more time, my feet to take one more step, my torn lungs to take one more breath…

Oh, how I long to lie down, to rest in a corner, to go to sleep and awake no more…to feel the embrace of my beloved Seàrlaid instead of dead iron shackles…to hear the laugh of my children instead of the derision of the guards…

But I will go on. I will force breath into my body until Sheppard is safely away from this place.

I could not save my children. All but one are dead—if not in body, then in spirit, and so are dead to me.

I could not save Gillesbachan. I could not keep Amhalghaidh from death, nor Durhan, nor could I stop the queen from killing my wife and daughters, all but one.

But the Spirits have given me a chance to make amends for my sins. In this man, this child, I am given the chance to save my sons, my daughters, my wife, my hive. He is my son, my children, returned in a form with the weakness of a babe. I am given the chance to balance the scales—save this child, as I could not save mine. Bring this child back to life from death, as I could not mine. Give my life for him, as I could not for mine own.

At last we reach a last ladder. I can hear the trees and the stars calling to me…beyond the dead hatch above my head is the living world.

I begin to climb, but to do so saps my strength more than a thousand painsticks. I feel the blood filling my lungs with every ragged breath, feel the bullet shards tear into my flesh, scrape bone. My heart struggles to pump the dregs of life in my veins, for it has gushed from the riverbeds and flowed into the dark ocean in my gut.

I reach the hatch, and summon all my strength to force it upward—I am fortunate, the hinges are well oiled, and it does not resist my touch—but the movement forces the bullets deeper into me, and I cannot help but groan. I stumble out into the clean air, and step away to allow Sheppard to come out.

I clutch my side with my hand—the warm blood seeps between my fingers, soaks my coat. It takes all the energy I have to stand.

I hear Sheppard gasping for breath. This is too much for him, but I cannot give my life to him just yet. I must get him farther from this place, but I do not know how much longer my strength will hold, for I have almost none left—it is sheer stubbornness that keeps me alive now.

"How far is the Stargate?" he asks. He is tired, I hear it in his voice. I realize that it is night, the time when most humans sleep. He too should be sleeping—he is wounded, and weak from my feeding. He is human. He is a child.

"It will be guarded," I warn him. It would be foolish to go to the stargate. It would be wise to move away from the stargate, wait for his people to rescue him, or for Kolya to relax his guard. It would be wise, but for the fact that I do not know which direction the stargate is in. It has been too many years.

"We've got guns," he replies, and my anger and frustration grows. Guns! Weapons! Force! This is what has led our peoples into this never-ending war. It is the soldiers who followed the queens, those who reached for their guns before they reached for reason, for cunning, for understanding, of each other and of the situation.

"They will be waiting for us," I tell him angrily. I have not lead him out of death only to lead him to death.

"Don't be so negative," he chides me, looking around.

Agony, fiercer than I have felt since I felt the death of my family, erupts within me, and I can stand no longer. I sink onto the edge of the hatch with a cry as the ground sways beneath me and my vision swims, darkness and light eddy like waters before my eyes. Air and blood vie for place in my lungs, and my entrails are little more than dead flesh, an uncooked stew of viscera and muscle in a gravy of blood. I need no healer to tell me this.

"You think you're gonna make it?" I hear him ask, as from a distance, and I wonder, did I hear concern in his voice? Concern for the monster? Or was it only in my fancy, my hope to hear a kind word before I face the Spirits for judgement?

"If I feed," I say truthfully. But it is not a suggestion. I do not desire to feed on Sheppard. I do not desire to feed at all. The burning hunger is dead in me at last, killed by the bullets that are now slowly killing me.

"Well, don't look at me!" he scoffs, clearly worried, and obviously determined not become my prey.

I sigh, and try to stand, reaching out my arm as a counterweight…

But Sheppard thinks I reach for his neck, and I realize I have stretched out my arm in his direction, even as I had pointed my gun at his head. He pulls out his gun, and points it at my head. I stumble back, raising my gun and pointing it at him without thinking. I hold it with my left hand, and there is little chance that my aim would be true, but…

I sway on my feet…I have lost so much blood…

"We make it to the Stargate, we both go our separate ways," he breathes slowly, reasoning, though whether with me or himself, I am unsure.

I nod wearily, and stumble forward. It does not matter which direction I take, so long as it is away from the death hole.

I lurch forward—I either move forward or I will fall down.

If I fall, I will not rise.

If I fall, so may Sheppard.

I will not fail again.


	12. Dawn and Dusk

Dusk and Dawn 

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Cainwen: Hi! Don't have much time before my taskmasters return, so here's the deal. This chapter is not yet betaed, so please don't yell too much. I would have updated quicker, but it was a rather difficult chapter. Thanks to all the reviewers, sorry I didn't have time to respond, but your encouragement makes my day! This story has 2-3 chapters left, then there will be a brief time when I am finishing my LOTR story, and then the prequel will begin to be posted. 

Wraith: AGAIN!

Cainwen:EEP! Enjoy! By the way, there is something in this chapter that does not come from the Atlantis universe as we know it, and will be further explained in the prequel, so you have to come back! Mwahahahaha! ARGH!

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As we stumble through the trees, both unsure where we are going, unsure of the other and too weak not to trust each other, I am caught in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. 

Pain. So much pain. Each moment an eternity of agony. Each breath brings blood, not air, to my burning lungs. Each step brings me closer to death, not life.

Behind me, Sheppard grunts as he trudges along, limping because of his wounded leg, his breathing uneasy because of age…

Sorrow. What have I done? I have killed…how many men tonight? Two? Three? How many men have I helped kill?

I am the monster Sheppard believes me to be. I look back at him stumbling over roots in the darkness…I should help him, for I can see clearly in the dark whereas he cannot, but I do not think he would accept my help…

Joy. Overwhelming, unutterable joy. To breath the living air, hear the whispers of the trees, the soft, sweet, song of the stars, feel living earth beneath my feet, not dead stone…there are not words enough in any language to describe it.

Hope. Perhaps I can atone in part for my unspeakable sin. Perhaps I can return this child to his family. Perhaps…

No, my sins can never be expurgated…never can I be forgiven…

Longing. I have missed my wife for countless years. Before the Wraith queens declared war on Atlantis, centuries before the Lanteans fled, I lost her, murdered by the queen who feared rivalry, wanted her fertility. Twenty two children we had had together…the queen wanted all children to be of her own blood. Miss I too my children, murdered by the queens' hosts. Twenty one children dead…

"I was blindfolded all the way to the bunker. It wasn't _this_ far," Sheppard's words break through my thoughts, and I realize that he has over taken me. Whereas before he followed several steps behind me, he now walks by my side. The light is growing slowly in this forest, and I can tell he is impatient to be away from the place of his imprisonment.

"If I could just move faster…" I mutter. Clutching my side, I try to quicken my steps despite the pain growing in my chest and the weakness that threatens to drag me down to the sleep of eternity…

But I have neither strength nor balance left to me, and I fall with a cry. I land on my hands and knees, gasping for breath. But there is nowhere in my lungs for the air to go—they are full of my dark blood. Waves of torment crash over me, and I feel the black fluid of life flow out of the wounds once more, drenching my clothes. I wonder that Sheppard cannot smell the sickly sweet metallic odor…

"We'll rest here a few minutes," Sheppard announces ahead of me—he must be as weary as I, for I do not think he yet understands what it has cost me to lead him out…

"You should go on without me," I tell him, for at last I am done. There is nothing left in me…I may be able to stand to honor him, to honor his strength, to bless his courage, but no more. My body draws strength from limb and senses in the futile attempt to keep me alive. Here I will die, and here will my bones lie in dishonor.

"_No,"_ he says firmly, and for a moment I let myself dare to believe he looks on me, if not as a comrade, at least as another being, and not a thing, but the next moment I know the truth. "The Gate's guarded. Got a better chance to take down the guards in a crossfire….I still need you."

I struggle to rise onto my knees. "Very well." What more can I say?

"That is, even if we're going in the right direction," he muses as I force my weary frame to kneel. I roll my head back as my destroyed gut screams in protest, but this is little more than a sting compared to the misery that afflicts my spirit at the thought that I might fail him, that I have destroyed all hope of his trusting in me…for if he trusts me not, I cannot lead him to safety…

He turns to me, suspicious. "You have no idea where the Stargate is, do you?"

I sigh—it is too much to bear, the anger and disappointment in his voice…

_"Where's mother?"_

_I bow my head, lost in grief and guilt. "She was taken while I was gone."_

_Gillesbachen stares at me in disbelief and horror. "My sisters?"_

_I do not move. I am numbed by the loss of so many, the emptiness... A small movement in the corner of our quarters attracts our attention. I turn to face my son, my youngest living son. _

"_All but one were taken."_

"_How could you let this happen!"_

How could I let it happen?

How could I have stopped it?

I slump back onto my heels, and murmur apologetically, "It was many years ago."

But the damage is done, and no words can stop it…

"Way to go, John! Listening to a Wraith!" he shouts, furious with himself…

"_How could you? How could you let her kill them? Aren't you going to do something?"_

"It was not my intention to deceive you, Sheppard," I tell him, and he glares at me. I have lost another son. Again I have failed…

The device which Sheppard stole crackles to life, and the voice of a soldier sounds in the dark forest.

"Our reinforcements have arrived at the Stargate, Commander," the voice says as Sheppard and I stare at the device. While he is distracted, I struggle to rise, for I know that he will now leave me—he will not remain with someone he cannot trust. I would look into his eyes as he delivers me into the arms of the Spirits…

"Kill the Wraith on sight, but I want Sheppard alive," the captor's voice orders over the device, but I am too tired to be angry at him for his order to dispose of me as he would a weapon, something no longer needed…to die would be to receive mercy…

Sheppard turns to me, and the anger is gone from his eyes…perhaps his anger at the captor is greater than his anger at me. Or, perhaps the fear of being returned to the hands of the tormentor has convinced him it was better to escape with the monster and not know where he is going than to have died in prison…

"Well, we learned two things: one, he likes me better than you...," he jokes, and I chuckle softly—there is the spirit of Gillesbachen…

"Two, we probably would've never made it to the Stargate anyway," he concludes more seriously, more sadly, and my spirit falls again…I have failed…I have failed my son again…

"_How could you have let this happen? You swore to protect them!"_

I sink to the ground, too weary in body and spirit. I could not return him to his home if there were no guards surrounding the stargate…the my last effort to stand has torn my right lung to nothing, a tattered sack to float in the dark sea of my blood…this world begins to fade at the edge of my vision, and I welcome the end…

"Then it is over," I sigh, sorrowful and content…

"No. Our people don't leave each other behind. That's three things you've learned," Sheppard declares forcefully. He must have mistaken what I said…thought I meant the attempt at escape…although, it is more than possible that no one may return for him…his people may abandon him as mine abandoned me…

"You still believe that?" I ask softly, for I am curious. Has the spirit of the Suleviae been reborn in humans after these thousands years? How else is it possible he still believes in rescue? Is it possible that the ancient codes of the wraith live on? Sheppard comes over to me, and as he speaks, there is a gentleness? a friendliness? a kindness? in his voice I have not heard in many years…

"Kolya doesn't know where we are," he reasons, crouching down in front of me. "He's wasting manpower that could be used searching for us guarding the Gate. The odds of my people finding us are going up and up."

A long forgotten sense of elation fills my heart at his words…the Suleviae may be gone, but their spirit lives in their descendents…perhaps wraith and humans can live as they once did, not at odds, but coexisting harmoniously…our spirit has not been lost…

"You are more like Wraith than you know," I tell him, but this is something he does not want to hear—he is yet a child, he wants his world to be black and white, things in clear categories: wraith are evil, humans are good, and this simple statement would shatter those divisions…

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," he snarls, angry that I could even suggest such a thing.

For my part, I am angry that he is still so blind, still so arrogant…

"There is much about Wraith that you do not know, Sheppard."


	13. As I Lay Dying

**As I Lay Dying**

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Cainwen: I am so so sorry! RL decide to attack, and I've been licking my wounhds as it were. Anyone qualified to kill nasty dragons, such as RL, please contact me ASAP.

Wraith and Steve Plushie: WILL YOU SHUT UP AND GET WRITING?

Cainwen: Yes yes yes. I hope to post a second chapter latter today in compensation for the long wait. Hey! I wont get to post if you guys give me a concussion! Argh!

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"There is much about Wraith that you do not know, Sheppard," I growl at him, so furious am I at him, but my ragged lungs protest their forceful use…

Agonizing coughs and racking muscle spasms shake my disintegrating frame. I curl into myself, falling to my side, trying to prevent my drowning lungs from tearing me apart in their desperate bid for air…

"Hey! Stop that!" Sheppard yells…

Pain! So much pain! Will I ever be rid of this pain?

I feel bile rise in my throat as my body tries to clear my throat in the only other way it knows how…

Blood, the thick, sickening liquid fills my mouth, flows everywhere within me…

Seàrlaid! I will see you soon!

"Hey!"

Brilliant lights flash before my eyes, and absolute darkness circles at the edge of my vision, waiting to engulf what scraps the pain will leave…

"Hey!"

Sudden shock, a solid thump, and my startled lungs draw in air.

"Don't do that!" Sheppard gasps loudly nearby. "I still need ya. You're no good to me if you're just a pile of guts on the forest floor."

My breathing slows, and I concentrate on taking regular, shallow breaths. I carefully roll onto my back, to take pressure off my wounded side…

The night sky is so beautiful! I had almost forgotten the song of the stars, their gentle healing light…

I close my eyes, weary beyond anything I have ever felt, and simply listen to the sounds of life—the voices of the living forest, the living ground, feel the gentle caress of the night breezes, breathe in the cool, moist, loamy air…

I open my eyes, and gaze upward. The wind blows the gauzy clouds from the sky, and three half moons appear in the sky, like the gems my children played with as babes—pale violet, golden and white….

What was it that Seàrlaid said to me whenever things were going wrong? It was part of an old song she had learned from the Suleviae…

"From my window I can see the moon."

That was it. When all was going wrong, and I worried what would be left for our children and their children, that is what she would say to me, not to pass lightly over my fears, but to remind me that some things not even the queens could destroy. They could try to destroy all who followed the Spirits, but they could not destroy the moon. The moon would remain, remain to lead others back to the old ways, even when we were long forgotten, erased by the queens…

The moons are still here. Kolya will not last. He will return to dust, and the moons will continue to wax and wane in the night sky, singing with the stars…

"Tell Kolya there's nobody around the Gate," a voice says crackling over the device before it is silenced again.

"Sounds like they're concentrating their search around the Gate," Sheppard mutters to himself, and then looks over at me. "They must think we knew where we were going."

I chuckle, partly at John, partly out of joy. Joy! How long has it been since that word has crossed my mind?

"Oh, it was worth it, if only to see the sky again," I say, still chuckling. I would dance if I could. I would shout for joy! I will see Seàrlaid again, and Kolya will be dust and the moons will still be there!

"I got slightly higher expectations," Sheppard mutters, and I at last can hear that he is sitting near my feet. I am brought back to the present, a present of pain and fear, and realize I had lost myself in the stars' song…

"My wound is deep," I remind him, and struggle rise to lean on one elbow, in order to see him eye to eye as I remind him of the cold fact that I am not long for this world. "If I do not feed soon, I will die."

"Buck up. We got a deal, remember? We _both_ go home alive," he tells me, still clearly fearful that I see him as a potential meal. When will he realize that he is as a son to me? I do not desire to feed on him, even if I could. I do not think I have the strength. Even my voice is weak once again, human like again. Perhaps, this is not such a loathsome thing…

"And if we were to meet again in the future, what then?" I ask him, wanting to know if through this he has learned anything, if he has lost some of his childishness…

"All bets are off," he repeats, and I chuckle. No, he is still a child. Perhaps this too is a good thing. Children can learn still.

"Then let us hope we do not meet again," I say to myself, though I know he hears me. If we were to meet again, he would kill me, as I know he has been longing to do. And I would not stop him.

"Try to get some sleep. I'll take the first watch," he says softly, and he rises stiffly to pace the clearing, trying to stay warm. Perhaps he at least realizes now how near I am to death. Even a human's eyes could not miss the blood that now lies pooled on the ground at my side, turning to mud and nourishing the forest as I lie down once again, doubting I will sleep, unless it is the final sleep of peace.


	14. I Must Be Cruel, Only To Be Kind

**I Must Be Cruel, Only To Be Kind

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**  
_ I do repent; but heaven hath pleas'd it so,_

_To punish me with this, and this with me,_

_That I must be their scourge and minister._

_I will bestow him, and will answer well_

_The death I gave him. So again, good-night--_

**_I must be cruel, only to be kind: _**

****_Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.—_(_Hamlet_ Act 3, Scene IV)

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**A/N**: Cainwen: Alas! I have not updated in so long! I apologize with all my heart. 

Wraith: When are you going to learn to BE QUIET?

Cainwen: When YOU learn not to hurt me just because I want to explain that it has been impossibly lately to update!

Steve: GET ON WITH THE STORY!

Cainwen: Alright already! This would have been up yesterday, but wouldn't let me sign on. Also, please, REVIEW!!! It convinces them that I'm doing my job properly! Enjoy! ARGH!

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So many thoughts drift through my mind as I lie here. Thoughts of home, thoughts of family, bits of ballads, scraps of songs, lays and lullabies I sang to my children, that Seàrlaid sang to me when I was weary with worry for my family. She was so wonderful—the spirits truly blessed me beyond my deserts when they ordained that she be the mate for my soul. She was the gentlest and kindest of all living things; she cared not what shape a spirit took, be it human or wraith, they all found a mother, a sister, a healer in her. Her wrath was slow to kindle, but when it did, it blazed like a thousand suns. Her love was like the universe itself—boundless. 

May the Spirits and Judges curse the queen who killed such a one as my wife a thousand-fold more severely!

Who am I to call a curse upon the queen's head? Did I not fail to protect my love? Should not I have died in her stead?

The stars call my name; they tell me of things past and of things to come. They warn me that I must make a decision that may cost me my soul in order to save my son. They tell me not to despair—my last daughter sleeps undisturbed. They tell me that my wife awaits me on the other side.

I drift in a netherworld between consciousness and sleep, life and death, joy and despair. Life ebbs from every cell in my body, but I feel no pain anymore. I have no strength to spare to send superfluous messages, telling me I am dying.

I remember that last time I held my youngest daughter in my arms…she was but a few months old, she was so tiny in my arms, even wrapped in blankets and furs for warmth. Her skin was soft and pale like a moon, her eyes dark—they had not yet turned golden, she was so little. Wisps of soft black hair covered her head; the star tattoo on her temple marked her as Seàrlaid's child, while the arrow on her right hand marked her as mine.

She was perfect.

Why do I speak of her as if she were dead? She is alive, though asleep—dreaming a dream from which she may never be awoken…

_Crack!_

I hear the snapping of twigs, none to distant from where I lay. I jerk into wakefulness, and sit up before I can think.

It is after dawn; the forest is bathed in pale morning sunlight. John Sheppard lies asleep under a tree, clearly exhausted.

Soldiers! Soldiers who would bring Sheppard back to that prison, that place of death…

I must wake Sheppard…

But what would he do? He is too weak. Could he stand, let alone fight?

I struggle to my feet, fear for Sheppard giving me new strength. But it is not enough. It would take very little for the soldiers to dispatch me as I am…

This is what the stars warned me of…the choice that may cost me my soul to purchase for my son his life—

I must feed upon him again.

No! I cannot. I swore I would not feed upon him again…it would be too cruel to this child…

Which is the crueler fate? To suffer a few minutes of old age and betrayal, or weeks, years of torture and hopeless death far from home?

I go to his side as quickly and silently as I can. I will feed, and free him from these soldiers. Then I will give him life again, and my name, that he may curse my soul hereafter.

I kneel beside him, and he stirs from his slumber, looking at me drowsily.

"They're coming," I whisper to him, and before he can respond I place my hand on his chest. I make certain he feels no pain as I drain him of the dregs of his life—he is in a deep sleep; he will awake to find himself young and whole again.

I stop before his heart gives out—there is just enough strength in him to stay alive for an hour or so. What I took from him is barely sufficient to heal my torn arteries and give my limbs a little strength, but it is enough.

I carefully move him to the middle of the clearing—I want the soldiers to see his withered form. Though it pains me to see him thus, it will awaken fear in their hearts, and fear makes them clumsy. It makes them think of themselves, instead of relying on each other. It makes them start at everything, and so miss the one sound that is important…

I leap up, swinging myself onto one of the lower branches of a tree. My wounds protest fiercely, but I ignore their complaints—the soldiers are approaching.


	15. The Spirit of Wrath

**A Spirit of Wrath **

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Cainwen: Greetings everyone! Thank you everyone who reviewed! I now have 101 reviews, and 10222 hits. Wow, never thought I'd get that. 

Wraith: What are you going on about?

(Steve Plushie pokes with sharp stick)

Cainwen: Hey, cut that out! ouch! Anyway, here's a really long chapter, and one in which I once again push the limits. Ouch! I'm going as quickly as I can! Please let me know what you think. Oh, by the by, I know that when McKay's looking at his lifesign's detector, he says "eight" but I only counted 4, and if you watch the way the little dots blink out of existence, it doesn't make any sense. So I am going from the Wraith POV, and there are 4. I will be like the bee who flies because she doesn't know that physics says its impossible. Ouch! Okay okay, I'll stop. Sheesh!

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"They're coming," I whisper to him, and before he can respond I place my hand on his chest. I make certain he feels no pain as I drain him of the dregs of his life—he is in a deep sleep; he will awake to find himself young and whole again. 

I stop before his heart gives out—there is just enough strength in him to stay alive for an hour or so. What I took from him is barely sufficient to heal my torn arteries and give my limbs a little strength, but it is enough.

I carefully move him to the middle of the clearing—I want the soldiers to see his withered form. Though it pains me to see him thus, it will awaken fear in their hearts, and fear makes them clumsy. It makes them think of themselves, instead of relying on each other. It makes them start at everything, and so miss the one sound that is important…

I leap up, swinging myself onto one of the lower branches of a tree. My wounds protest fiercely, but I ignore their complaints—the soldiers are approaching.

Though they enter together, they quickly distance themselves from their companions as when they see John. For all their training and their belief in their invincibility, it is this that will lead them to death—they are predictable.

Yet, even as I am glad that I judged them so well and they are moving exactly as I wish, so that in a few moments I can leap down and surprise them, rage awakens in me.

They have not stopped to see if he lives!

Even the lowest of the Wraith would stop and see if he were alive; the better of us, if we found him dead, would give him proper burial.

These…_bastards_! How _dare_ they think themselves better? They are no better, no, _worse_ than the queens, worse than the Lanteans who abandoned their own!

The rage gives me strength as it races through my veins like fire, like the "bloodlust" of human warriors, and drives away all my cool intentions, displacing calculating reason with hot fury, quick and untempered.

I leap from my perch on the branch, landing but a few feet from a soldier, who before he is fully cognizant of my presence is thrown backwards by my arm, fueled by anger long kept at bay, now released like a flood, it cannot be stopped.

I spin around, and another soldier falls before me—my body is moving faster than my mind and without my approval of its actions…

The other two soldiers have gathered their wits, and standing together, fire their weapons at my chest. But their weapons cannot kill a spirit, and it is a spirit of wrath that controls this body now, and a spirit has no need for blood or nerves in any quantity.

I run at them, defying their bullets and the pain they cause—I feel it not. Blood may be gushing from my veins, my heart may be nothing more than a tattered rag, my viscera liquid, but it matters not. I tear their guns from their trembling hands and throw them to the ground.

My right hand finds its mark and begins to drain the life from its captive, whose hands grasp at my arm blindly as he feels his life fly from him and his grasp on this world slip.

The wretched fool! I will not stop for all his fear—he would be condemned to death by any court, I do not fear the Spirits' retribution for the taking of this life. Even through my fury, I recognize him—he is the torturer. He delights in pain—he is the one who kicked me, prodded me with the painstick, and laughed. I have for many years witnessed him perform his "craft" on my fellow captives—deftly mutilating with knife and brand and whip, exacting the greatest pain possible with acids and salt and antiseptics—torture and care in one blow. He will be mourned by none—if his family has any honor, they have forgotten this son who lived by death.

The soldier pinned to the ground by my left hand clutches at my arm in terror as he watches his comrade age before his eyes. I spare him a brief glance and, recognizing him, roar in rage before returning to the torturer, who has stopped fighting and stares at the sky with eyes unseeing. Beneath my hand, his heart ceasing its pounding, and his last life energies flow into me, causing new sinews, new veins, new tissues to burn into being and fuse with the old, new blood to race like fire, fueling my fury and stoking my strength.

May he face the Spirits with more courage than he showed in life!

Now the other!

My right hand replaces my left and pulls at the life of this soldier, this scum of the human species. This one, so young, a part of me wants to mourn his life, but for so hardened and cruel a being I cannot. What words are there to describe one such as this? Cruel does not cover the extent of his crimes or the voraciousness of his hunger for the sight of pain. A child, yes, but a child who had denied the Spirits, who had denied his own soul.

Yet, now, in his eyes, I see him recognize Death and the country beyond. He cannot deny them now, for he can see them.

The wrath cools, the fierce anger softens and I send him to sleep—even he should not have to feel that last wrench as life tears from flesh.

I stand, arching my back, and growl, stretching new muscle, easing the pain of regeneration, rejoicing in the deep purr of my voice. Energy buzzes in every sinew of my being; molecules, claimed from these soldiers' bodies, organize within me, knitting tissue, fusing bone long broken. I have not felt these things in countless years…I had forgotten what it is to have energies to spare, to have it stored within me, tingling, waiting for the opportunity to be used…

But I must have more. I must have more to return to Sheppard his life. My feet, now light with life forgotten, carry me swiftly to the soldier I first hit, who now lies some fifteen feet from Sheppard.

I kneel at his side, prepared to feed, yet I must needs stop—can I take this soldier's life?

The others I have fed on this night I knew—they were cruel to human and wraith alike. The Spirits do not forbid the taking of a wasted life—is that what this man has?

He stirs, and, my guard let down, his thoughts and memories wash over my mind. I quickly shield my mind again and feed—I need have no qualms. This one was not only a murderer, a torturer, but also the worst kind of human—the rapist. He can expect no mercy from the Spirits, for they have no tolerance for those who look on others as belongings. I take his life quickly, I do not wish to think on him any longer.

I move to the last soldier, who has begun to awaken, and stares at me with eyes full of terror.

This one I cannot kill.

He has not been the Captor but for a few months. He was not like the others, he took no delight in suffering. Though he offered me no words of comfort, nor did he taunt me like the others. He would share his meal with the human prisoners when he saw them starving.

I saw him weep for a man tortured by the Captor.

This child, there is hope for. His spirit has not been killed yet. He may yet redeem himself.

I kneel at his side, and feel his fright. He is so young, he should be home, seeking a mate, not wielding a weapon.

"Please," he whispers in horror, certain of what I am going to do.

"Do you wish to live?" I ask him, placing my right hand on his shoulder and seeking my answer in his eyes. "Do you deserve life?"

His dark eyes reveal his confusion as he nervously shakes his head and tries to answer, though his lips move too quickly to form words.

I nod, and place my left hand gently on his head. I hold his gaze as I place in his mind the lessons I taught mine own children, and reveal to him the conditions of his escape: he must never harm another, must deny the Captor.

He understands, and he will not forget—he cannot. Wherever he would go or do, my words will cling to him as an iratus to a human, never to release its hold until death.

I allow myself a small, but proud smile. Another son, wayward, but a son.

"Go," I tell him, and release his shoulder. He scrambles to his feet, and runs.

Behind me, Sheppard groans softly, and I quickly return to his side.

I kneel beside him, and he raises his head to glare at me, anger and betrayal all too clear in his eyes.

"Finish it," he spits into my face.

His words cut me like a knife, though I do not know why. I knew he would never trust me, knew he would never understand why I did what I did…

_Finish it_.

Were those the last words of my family? Did Gilleasbachan snarl those words to his captors, defying them even as they stole from him his life? Did Seàrlaid taunt the Queen, her murderer? What were the last words from my beloved's lips?

Perhaps I should finish it. Return Sheppard his life, and end mine own.

No.

I _must _ make Sheppard understand before I die. When I die, who will there be to remind the universe that there once were wraith like Seàrlaid, like my children? Who will there be to awaken my daughter?

I will do for Sheppard what I did for the soldier child. Then will he understand.

"As I told you, John Sheppard, there are many things about Wraith that you do not know."

But you will.


	16. After the Nightmare

**After the Nigh****tmare**

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Cainwen: Heavens forgive me, I am SO SORRY!!! Life has been hitting me really hard lately. 

Wraith and Steve: MORE EXCUSES?

Cainwen: No, apologies. Shut up. I haven't slept in ages, and I have a caffine-deprivation headache that would kill a whale.

(Wraith and Steve snarl)

Cainwen: Okay okay. Sorry this chapter is short. I promise, the next two will be longer, and will follow shortly. And then the prequel!

Steve: GET ON WITH IT!!!

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As gently as I can, I place my hand for the last time over his chest, over the open wound where I most recently took his strength. Quickly I interpose myself between Sheppard and the pain of regeneration. I know the burning, prickling fire of life energies as it courses through vein and nerve, healing and strengthening—he does not, nor would I have him know it, for it is not pleasant. 

Ah! Now I see clearly his mind, laid before me as an ocean—here, his unconscious mind, deep and dark; here, his conscious mind, a shallow lagoon clear and bright, where things from the deeps may sometimes wash.

My time is short—in the distance I hear the faint hum of a ship and the report of weapons fire. I must hurry.

I force myself to be calm, for I will have but one chance to do this.

As one may pour a basin of water into an ocean, so I pour my memories into John's unconscious mind. Here, my knowledge of Wraith weapons, technology, medicine, myths, legends and faith. Here, my knowledge of the Suleviae, of their gentle teachings, their love, their faith, their technology that did no harm. Here my knowledge of the Lanteans, those who abhorred their brethren and destroyed that which they touched with their technologies. Here too I will pour my tale in full, and all the tales of my hive. The tales of Seàrlaid, of her brothers and mine. Here the tale of my last living daughter, and the place where she is hidden in sleep. The tale of how we have come to be, and how we have failed.

And here, here in the brightness of his waking mind, I lay my tale in brief. I lay bare my reasons for torturing him so, for pouring into his mind 20,000 years and more worth of memory. And here I lay the lines which connect to the knowledge in the ocean, as one lays lines for nets. Here, the tale of my daughter. Here, technology, all to be called on in the fullness of time.

Footsteps! Not a hundred yards away, people approach. I pray to the spirits that they are John's rescuers, and not his captors.

The damage to his body is healed, but I would not leave him with the mark of my feeding. I lack the skill of Seàrlaid, who could have directed just enough energies to heal the wound and cause him no pain. I am not a healer, and so I am forced to thrust another torrent of energies through my hand into the wound, trusting them to go where they are needed.

But in withdrawing my hand, I realize too late I withdrew myself as the barrier between John and the pain of regeneration. John gives a cry of pain, quickly stifled, and arches his back, stretching the new sinews.

I remain crouched over him, protecting him, watching to make sure that what I sensed was true, that he was healed, watching to see his eyes when they open.

Watching my child wake after a nightmare.


	17. Longing for Home

**Longing For Home **

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Cainwen: Thank you for your kind reviews, all you who bothered to log in. For those of you who didn't, shame on you! Now, I have crunched the numbers, and no matter how you look at it, I should have more than 10 reviews for this chapter. Please, Please review! It doesn't have to be long! One word reviews are fine. Longer ones appreciated.

Steve and Wraith: (snarl)

Cainwen:You see, even _they_ are please with me this time. So, please review!!!

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John opens his eyes, and looks at me with a mixture of hatred, confusion and understanding. I know I could not have hoped for more. After all I have done to him, had he still hated me, I would not have blamed him. 

A strong hand suddenly falls on my shoulder and throws me backwards, away from John. I tumble ungracefully heels-over-head, and land in an unceremonious and very uncomfortable heap, vaguely aware that at least one energy weapon and several of the human-make projectile weapons are aimed at my…whatever is presented to them. I try to orientate myself, and struggle to gain my feet—my body is not yet fully healed, and it is taking longer than it should for me to find equilibrium…

My mental shields are down, and I am struck by wave upon wave of hatred, fear and disgust, an assault they could not know they are waging; yet it is more effective than a physical blow…

The weapons are armed…

I gain a crouch, and disoriented, millennia of training, deeply ingrained, take over, and I snarl at the men who surround me, only distantly aware of what I am doing as I wrestle to master my body, reestablish my shields, block their furious passions…

"Wait!"

John has jumped to his feet, and is trying to forestall my death. The poor boy—does he not understand that my death is long over due? That he and his family are well justified in ending my existence here?

"Leave him!" John shouts.

More soldiers run to their comrades and aim their weapons at me. "Him". John called me "him". Not "it". Not "the wraith". "him". Perhaps what I have shown him…

"That's an order!" John commands them more fiercely, even as they continue to train their weapons on me…

Their hatred is so strong! It beats upon me like a furious wave of heat, keeping me from mastering my body, preventing me from rebuilding my mental shields. I crouch and snarl, even as my battered and scarred lungs work to draw in air. It would take days to completely heal all the damage my body has suffered—days I do not have, and do not want…

"I don't understand. We all saw what he did to you," one of the men says. His accent is not like John's—it reminds me of something I heard long ago, but has been hidden…

"He just undid it," John says, gently, firmly, wonderingly. "Lower your weapons," he tells them, once again as a commander.

"How is this possible?" a woman asks, incredulous. The hatred lessens, and is replaced by awe and confusion. I am able to master myself, and replace my shields.

"Don't ask me," John mutters as he walks towards me, clearly wanting an explanation.

I turn to face him, and stand up, at last freed of the training-become-instinct, and think how best to explain. Already I have laid my motives bare to John, but perhaps he needs to hear me say it, needs his comrades to hear it as well. But how can I explain it to them? I sense that they have never met a Wraith who was more than a mindless, vicious killer. But they have no doubt seen those wraith who force worship from humans.

"The gift of life is reserved only for our most devout worshippers," I say, and realize that this is wrong. John has not worshiped me, and I have never asked anyone to—I am worthy only of scorn. I gave John life as I would to any child of mine. But they would not understand this either. "And our brothers."

I turn to John's rescuers—they do not understand or believe. I simplify what I said so they will understand. They are too young, and too hurt. John will have to help them understand my true reasons later. "Sheppard gave me back my life. I merely repaid the debt."

"What debt? Are you kidding?! I mean, he looks younger than he did before!" another man blurts, high-pitched and rapidly. I recognize him from John's mind, as one recognizes a figure from a dream.

The tall, feral man, so abused by the Wraith, asks Sheppard, "What about Kolya?"

John curses, and runs to pick up the crackling device, yelling at the Captor, calling him a coward, warning him of what will happen when their roles are reversed. I listen with half an ear. It matters not to me any more. I have accomplished my last task—John has been returned to his family, his hive. My daughter will be provided for, awakened at last. After life's long fever, I wish for nothing more than to sleep. I wish only to be once again with my Seàrlaid, my family. I wish to at last answer for my actions. I do not wish to live a life unwanted. At long last, the Spirits have guided me to a place where there are no Wraith to drag me back to life. At last…

"What about him?"

I look up, aware that they are discussing my fate. The Runner wishes me dead, the others are unsure. John looks me in the eye.

"We had a deal, right?" he asks, an idea glimmering in his eye.

"I did not truly expect you to honour it," I reply and chuckle slightly, I am so happy to be going home…

The runner offers John his energy weapon. John pauses, hesitating, unsure. I stand, waiting for him to fire this one last shot. Please John, I plead silently, end my suffering. No one was meant to live 21,000 years…just because we _can_ perpetually regenerate, does not mean we should. For every being the Ancient One created, there is a time for birth, and a time for death. Mine has long since past. Please John, do not keep me from Seàrlaid any longer…

John takes the weapon, and aims it at my chest. A flash of red light, a jolt of pain, and the sweet darkness takes me in its arms…I take my last journey, my journey home.


	18. The Will of the Spirits

**The Will of the Spirits **

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Cainwen: You all see what a lovely person I am? I give you two chapters! In two hours! Now, please, leave reviews, or I will ask my masters Steve and Mr. Benevolent Wraith to go bother you. And they are liking me right now, so they probably would do me that favor.

(Steve and Wraith grin evilly and crack knuckles)

Cainwen: So, please leave a REVIEW and look out for my prequel A Mother's Love.

* * *

I have not died.

Oh! Why have I not died? Why have I been left behind again? Why do the Spirits prevent me from rejoining my wife, my family?

My mind is clouded, even as I lament my continued existence. A dull but persistent ache throbs in my chest with each beat of my heart. Around me, there is the soft hum of engines, the murmur of voices…human voices.

Why did John not kill me? Was not the weapon well charged? Even if it were not, could he not have killed me still? Or seeing that the weapon had failed to end my life, did he think it more profitable to take me captive?

Yet…I do not feel any bonds. Nothing prevents my movement except my own lethargy. I lie upon something soft, not the hard floor of a cell. For the first time in many years, I am warm. Someone has spread a blanket over me, and my head rests upon a pillow…

Perhaps it is because my mind is still wrapped in a fog that I do not understand. What is happening? I do not believe I am dead, but I cannot be a captive. No one treats a captive as they seem to be treating me.

Perhaps I am mad.

At last, the fog dissipates enough that I am able to open my eyes, if only for a moment. The light stabs my eyes and my vision is blurred by…tears?

Someone draws near to me…the woman. She is different than the others somehow. I crack my eyes open once again, and try to see her through the haze. She turns to someone I cannot see.

"Doctor, John, he is waking," she says, and I hear her, but as though I were underwater—it is distant, distorted.

"Nearly there," John's voice floats to me. "Doc, why don't ya give 'im something? He's had a rough night…"

He says more, but I cannot understand or cannot hear. I feel as though I were muffled in a cocoon of fleece, or floating in womb…

Another face hovers above me…the man with the accent…a kind face…I see his lips move, and his voice follows, delayed…

"Ah'd nair thought Ah'd say this tae one o' yoo, but, thank you. Thank you, faer gi'n us back Sheppard. Tapabh leigh."

How does he come to speak the old language?

Something bites my arm, and a chill spreads through my veins…I cannot ponder his knowledge of the old tongue, for I am once again welcomed into the arms of sleep…

…………………….

I wake with a jolt, as though hit with a wave of cold water. All around me is darkness and cold. On the air is the acrid taste of fear mingled with the exhaust of Wraith darts. I shout as one who has just awakened from a nightmare, and peer into the darkness. Memories swirl through my mind with no obvious order. I had thought he had killed me. I had _wanted_ him to kill me. Then, finding myself alive, I had thought myself once again a captive…and now I am here, lying in a field with darts screeching overhead. I remember my chest aching…I touch it where I was hit by the energy weapon. The ache has lessened, melded with the residual pain of my healing body.

Sheppard stands before me, hale and healthy, but changed. He has been tempered somewhat by what has happened, and what I have shown him. In his hands, a weapon, held loosely, though he raises it slightly as I wake.

"Ah, Sheppard," I say, "I thought…"

What had I thought? I no longer know. So much has happened…

"There's a lot you don't know about humans," John tells me, some of his cheekiness back in his voice.

I lean on my left arm and rise to my feet. This planet is different…the soil and trees sing a different song, the stars are different, the moons are gone.

"Ah, I see," I murmur. John thinks he has done for me what I have done for him…brought me home. He could not yet understand that my home is with my family, and that no hive now can be my home. My home was a place of life—they are only places of death…

I turn to him once again. I wonder… "Next time we meet..."

"All bets are off," he replies. We watch each other. I wonder how long it will take him to understand what I have shown him.

A dart screeches closer to us…I turn to look, and when I turn back, John is gone.

The wind begins to blow, and I stand swaying on my feet. I am tired once again—I have much healing to do. I think I understand why the Spirits stopped John's hand. I have forged the first link of trust, laid the first brick in a new alliance of humans and wraith. John does not realize it, but he has delivered a more terrible weapon than he could imagine into the midst of the Wraith. I am what the queens would fear, what they _should_ fear. I am one of the ancient ones. I know all the technology we possess. I know its flaws, how it has degraded over time, and how best to exploit it. My mind is not laid bare before the queens, nor will I be swayed. With my face I can pay homage, while my hands destroy what the queens have wreaked.

Yet I have work to do.

**The End **


End file.
